


trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson Break Up, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 04:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21488614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: CW for alcohol, cigarettes, vomiting
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Kudos: 15





	trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> CW for alcohol, cigarettes, vomiting

The only thing Louis hears anymore is his own name. Nobody to hide behind. He wears his hoodie zipped to his throat, aware of the security guards in his peripherals. Nobody to stand in front of, protect from unflattering tabloid photos. Flash. Flash. Flash.  
“Louis! Louis!” Hands wave in his face. He grins back, something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to after 20 hour flights. Nobody to gossip with. He presses his hand to his phone in his pocket.   
“Louis! Anything in the works for ya?”  
He keeps his mouth shut. He was trained to.   
“When’s the reunion?”  
He flashes a quick smile before he lets himself be led outside. More paparazzi wait for him. Flash. Flash. Flash.  
“Everyone back up. Back up.” His team clears him a path. Are they a team? He only knows their first names. He’s pretty sure they don’t even know his. Ok by him, they’re just doing a job. He likes being nobody to somebody.  
“Louis!” This voice catches his ear. He turns his face for a moment, towards the origin.  
He’s not quite sure why. He smiles again. She’s younger, and instead of waving a camera in his face she thrusts a voice recorder. A reporter. Maybe journalism student. “Hi.” He says evenly. Great. Really great. He still has no idea what to do with himself.  
“What do you think of Harry’s new solo stuff?” Her smile is brilliant, like soft morning light. Her teeth gleam pearly white. Her voice is as light as the clouds. Louis shows some teeth in his smile, conscious of letting his cheeks lift to crinkle the corners of his eyes.  
“I think it’s great, that he’s doing his own thing, yeah.” He hopes the lie is convincing. She beams at him, opening her mouth to ask another question. Louis feels large hands firmly guide him towards the car. He waves at her.

The car door shuts out the noise, mostly. His security pats the window which makes him flinch. The driver heads for the hotel. Louis rubs his stubbly cheek and sighs, absentminded thoughts floating around his head about how he should shave, he should shower when he gets to his room. He catches the drivers’ eyes in the rearview mirror, briefly.  
“How are you today?” He smiles genuinely. The driver’s eyebrows raise.  
“Alright, thanks. You?”  
“Long flight.” He mumbles and looks out the window. They’ve barely left LAX and they’ve already hit traffic. He thinks about the reporter and shuts his eyes, rubbing at his brow bone with the palm of his hand.   
“Can we take a detour?” He finds himself asking aloud.  
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got strict instructions to take you straight to the hotel.”  
Louis wrinkles his nose at being called sir. “It’d mean a lot.”  
“I’m sure it would, sir.”  
They sit in silence for a moment.   
“I’ll double what they’re paying you.” He blurts. The driver catches his eye again in the mirror.  
“If it’s a drug deal or prostitutes you couldn’t pay me enough.”  
Louis almost laughs. “It’s not.”  
The driver sighs. “Where to, sir?”

Louis finds a shop that’s selling what he’s looking for. He keeps his hood up and his hair in his eyes and pays in cash. He’s out before the driver can even have a crisis about his pliable morals. “That’s all, sir?” The driver asks.  
“It’s Louis. My name is Louis.” He says, clicking his seatbelt into place.   
“Anything else for you then, Louis?”  
“What’s your name?”  
The driver hesitates.  
“Josh.”  
“Last name?”  
“Adler.”  
“Well, Mr. Adler, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for ya. How’s that?” Louis watches the sun set over the hills. He shuts his eyes and shuts out the world. He doesn’t reopen them until the car slows and the engine shuts off. 

He goes through the motions of turning on the TV immediately upon entry to his hotel room. His bags are already on the floor, as well as a full itinerary on the bedside table. There’s a wakeup call scheduled for him at 6am. Monsters. He’s jet lagged beyond belief. 

Louis goes to the fridge in his room. There’s water bottles, a bar of Cadbury chocolate, and a bottle of wine. He sighs and crosses the room to the chair he abandoned his jacket on, fishing his cigarettes and a lighter out of his pockets. The TV still blares in the background, an infomercial selling him something, as he opens the window. The warm LA air rushes in, bringing the sound of traffic. He settles himself just inside the window sill to light his cigarette, expertly hidden from any possible cameras below. He should be far enough away that only a good lens would see him from the street, but he doesn’t dare lean out any further, though the lights and the distant music call to him like a siren song.

He’s gotten through half the bottle of wine before he pulls out the CD he bought earlier. He squints at it, like it’ll start playing itself if he keeps staring at it. Shit. Does he have a CD player on his laptop?

After discovering that no, he in fact did not have a disc player, he panics a little. He’s mad, mostly at himself, for being so stupid. He glances over at the CD again. He feels his stomach clench involuntarily. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before peeling off the plastic wrap and opening the case. Something flutters from it onto his lap, a download code. “Bless.” He mutters to himself, but he doesn’t really notice anymore when he talks to people who aren’t there.

He watches the music download on his computer, open in his library, and autoplay the first song. He presses the cold mouth of the wine bottle to his lips and shuts off the TV. Harry’s voice, tinny and far away, carries through his laptop speakers. He pauses the song and stares at the CD case. He’s had this nightmare before, where Harry’s in front of him, speaking to him, but just out of arm’s reach. He can’t stand the silence more than he can’t stand this memory, so he resumes the song. He drinks more.

He’s gone through two more cigarettes before the fourth track. What would Harry think about his habit? He lights another.  
“We’re not who we used to be,” His laptop delivering Harry’s words says to him.  
“We’re just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me.”  
Louis chokes on the inhale. 

His phone buzzes with texts. He shuts it off. The bottle is empty. He entertains the idea of ordering another to his room, but he can’t imagine anyone is awake at this hour. He also entertains the idea of going out to get it himself, but he knows that’s just as bad of an idea. He can’t think straight with this song demanding his attention.

“We’re just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty. Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.”

Louis’ ears are ringing.  
“I’m just trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.” Harry calls after him, but he’s let his legs carry him to the bathroom. His hands smell like cigarettes. The wine turns to poison in his stomach. He knits his eyebrows as a sob forces its way up his throat. He throws a hand over his mouth and slams the bathroom door behind him. 

He barely has enough time to push up the toilet seat before he empties his stomach. His body heaves over the toilet bowl, his eyes blurry with tears. His throat burns. He sucks in air as best he can, but his sobs only leave room for exhaling. He reaches blindly for toilet paper to clean his face. He sits, back pressed against the sink, wiping at his face and tossing the soiled toilet paper into the bowl. He flushes the toilet and remains seated, breathing heavily. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes as his shoulders shake. 

In the nightmare where Harry’s close enough to touch, but not quite, he never reaches back.


End file.
